


Broody Sunday

by kisssanitygoodbye



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisssanitygoodbye/pseuds/kisssanitygoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday afternoons are the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broody Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquill/gifts).



I watch him out of the corner of my eye while I’m busy rearranging the sugar packets that some stupid kid dropped on the floor.

Sunday afternoons are the worst. I can deal with the grumpy people who want a black coffee or latte to go before work, but the parents who come in with their children on weekends, only to take five minutes to decide what muffin they want, are a right pain in the arse.

I have no idea why  _he_ comes in on Sunday afternoons. If I had a choice, I would stay as far as I could from coffee shops.

Disorder eliminated, I quickly take the cappuccino that’s been ready for a while and set it on top of the counter. The woman smiles at me as she takes it, and her son sticks his tongue out at me before he follows her to an empty table. I want to return the gesture, but then I remind myself that he’s probably six, and I’m twenty-two.

As soon as Nate comes back from the stockroom I let him deal with the next customer and occupy myself with clearing the tables.

I watch  _his_  table again, drumming my fingers against an empty chair, and as soon as he takes the last bite of his pastry, I’m there, grabbing his plate, and I cough when he stares at me with wide eyes, clearly surprised by my sudden appearance.

“The staff here is very… attentive,” he says, and I nearly drop the plate. God, his voice. And there’s a smile on his face, even though I have to squint to make it out, and it’s gone so fast that I’m not sure if it’s even been there in the first place.

“Ha… uhm… yeah. We’re here to please.” The urge to slap my hand against my forehead has never been greater, and I want to turn around and leave, but he’s still looking at me, freezing me on the spot.

“Hm.” A few strands of white hair are falling into his eyes when he tilts his head, takes his mug and lifts it to his lips, emptying it and pushing it into my other hand. “Saves you a bit of walking.”

I need to get away, because I can feel words working their way up to my mouth, but the only movement I manage is awkward squirming. It’s ridiculous, and I bet even the six-year-old from before would have dealt with this in a much more suave, confident way.

I’ve been silent for too long, and his gaze turns quizzical.  _Talk, Carver. For fuck’s sake, just open your bloody mouth._

“Why Sundays?”

_Fucking hell._

And this time, his smile lasts so long that there’s no way I’m imagining it. “You always work on Sundays,” he says, and it sounds so casual that it takes me a few moments to realise what his words actually mean.

And now I really drop the plate. It shatters as soon as it hits the floor, and I’m absolutely sure that I can feel that bloody six-year-old’s judging eyes on me when I flee into the stockroom to get a dustpan.


End file.
